<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>The world will know by NicoMinecraftMan</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28369998">The world will know</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/NicoMinecraftMan/pseuds/NicoMinecraftMan'>NicoMinecraftMan</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Minecraft (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>1910s, Dreams POV, Fluff and Angst, Gang Violence, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Mild Angst, New York City, Opposites, Rich and Poor Dynamic, Slow Burn, mafia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 23:27:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,460</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28369998</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/NicoMinecraftMan/pseuds/NicoMinecraftMan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Clay was born into the upper class.<br/>"George" was not.<br/>After a business meeting gone awry, Clay is forced into a world he had never seen before, and made to leave his once relaxed life behind in order to not only save himself, but the man he had just met. </p><p>This takes place in the early 1910's and George is a mafia member while Dream is a rich heir. There are depictions of guns as well as gang violence so if that is not for you this story may not click :D</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Dnf - Relationship, Georgenotfound &amp; Dream, dreamnotfound - Relationship</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>51</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>       Clay was not fond of the summer. The wicked combination of lazy heat and beaming sun usually left him with constant sun burns followed by a devilish combination of sweat and sun baked dirt on the brow of his head that stayed despite many attempts to wipe it off. He had not been born to experience anything like this and he was well aware.</p><p>       He was the son of a rather well-off business man, practically being born into money. Such status had resulted in him hardly being able to sympathize with those who walked the streets below him. Unlike the stories of fair maidens locked into their towers gazing at those passing by, dreaming to one day join the rabble on the street, Clay was instead completely fine existing separately from the ninety-nine percent of those walking the streets of New York, viewing them as nothing more than a space filler. If presented with the choice to leave his home or to remain, Clay would always find some reason as to why he was ill suited for the venture. It was not as if he was separated from empathy completely of course, as he did feel quite bad for the unbathed rabble below him, he just simply had no desire to become one with them. This habit of his had not gone unnoticed, and many times he was denied the choice to stay within his usual four walls and instead was simply told to leave the homestead.</p><p>       This particular errand was no different.</p><p>       Clay’s father had taken to teaching him the trade he had perfected.  It was one of a rather unethical background like most decent businesses, but out of the many scandals within New York, it would not be front page material if it was found. In exchange for reduced prices on ink and paper, Clay’s father would receive information about the stock market exactly 6 hours before the numbers were made known to the public through the daily paper. Due to the unorthodox nature of what he does, Clay’s father had begun to use his only son as a front for his company, knowing that the blonde-haired boy would be able to carry through with his business deals arousing little suspicion.</p><p>       Clay, on the other hand, hated his family business. Not morally of course, money was money no matter how it was made, but rather the interactions with the filth of New York. Clay hardly interacted with the big CEO’s and officials in charge of the companies these deals would go through with, but rather thugs hired for protection or paper boys too scared to fight back against their employers. Occasionally he would meet moderately dressed women (which he usually cherished), and sometimes he’d meet the women who frequented brothels. Clay was, to put it simply, not made to interact with those who were beneath him, and this was no exception.</p><p>       The cobbled streets gave way to tall buildings, providing temporary relief from the sun. cars lazily passed by with well-dressed passengers sitting within them, chatting amongst themselves. Clay reached into his suit pocket, eventually pulling out a tiny yellowed piece of paper, the number 8 plastered into the center. Dropping the paper onto the ground, he began to count the red brick buildings, wiping his brow once again in search of some relief from the dirt that resided there. Upon coming across the eighth, he flanked into the adjacent alley, the shadowed area having an obvious drop in temperature that Clay relished in for a moment. Litter lined the walls of the buildings, and the sounds of the city echoed as if they existed within a completely separate dimension and the sounds of his steps seemed thunderous. Clay confidently walked down the alley, only looking down to avoid the trash that littered the ground. Of course, this was a front, but in the world of business everything is a front anyway.</p><p>       Eventually the alley gave way to a maze-like wall, Clay gazing down the left pathway to see a rather finely dressed man leaning against the back wall of a building. Relieved it wasn’t just another street rat, Clay walked towards the man, swallowing the last of his fear as he approached him.</p><p>       “Hello” Clay greeted.</p><p>       The man ignored the greeting and began to fumble in his pocket for something, making the gun tucked into his pants seam visible.</p><p>       “that’s a nice gun you’ve got there, a really stunning model” Clay cheerfully stated, his voice wavering slightly, but he quickly cleared his throat and loosened his collar. He was not going to lose his cool in front of someone belonging to the ninety-nine percent.</p><p>       “What company sent ya’” the man asked, making his non-American accent known.</p><p>       “Dream Ink” Clay stammered “You’re not from here are you?”</p><p>       “If you go back far enough, you’re not from here either pal” the man said in an ugly combination of street talk and posh accent, pulling a small silver container and opening it, revealing huge wads of cash delicately tied with twine, white paper tucked within each with the names of several companies adorned on them.</p><p>       “Well, I suppose that’s true… do you mind if I get your name for book keeping” Clay asked, pulling out a pocket journal and flipping to a random page. Of course he would never have done this regularly, but the man in front of him was a much better alternative to what he was used to seeing, and Clay would let his father know that he would like to request him in the future.</p><p>       “If anyone asks you, my name’s George. Nothin’ else, understood” the man said, grabbing the cash labeled with nothing but Dream. “Don’t ask again cause I know your type, always searching for a reason to kick a fella when he’s down”</p><p>       Clay grabbed the cash from the man’s hand, slipping it into his coat pocket, his face burning not from the sun, but rather embarrassment. It was this realization that his face was hot that also led Clay to notice that he had not actually looked at the man in front of him and had instead been fidgeting with buttons or studying the ground.</p><p>       Clay took his eyes off the ground to see the man the deal had just occurred with. He was short with short brown hair and dark brown eyes to the point where they could be misconstrued for two separate voids residing on the man’s face. He was very thin, but that was typical of those in what he believed to be a mafia profession. Clay was right to say he was decently dressed, but upon further inspection, the jacket he wore was frayed on the edge and his shoes had been scuffed.</p><p>       “Thank you for your time” Clay rushed out his mouth, hightailing it out of the alley, peering around the corner to make sure no one of importance was walking by before once again entering into the hot summer sun. As he walked he looked at his shoes out of habit, a scuff mark rearing its head on the side of his shoe.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Im so sorry this is fairly short, I have so many ideas of where this can go but I havent had time to map it out! Please leave a comment if you'd like and tell me what I can do better in the future!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>       Less than a moment after noticing this, the man in the alley came sprinting out, his tattered coat missing, and the gun once attached to his hip now in his hand. He quickly turned his head, looking the frozen in place Clay in the eyes, yelling something Clay couldn’t quite understand over the sound of the streets. George looked down the alley once again before sprinting towards Clay, grabbing his arm as he passed, dragging the frozen boy behind him.</span>
</p><p> <span>“Did you not hear me! I said to fucking run!” George yelled, bobbing through the people walking down the sidewalk, Clay was unable to say anything back, noticing not only his words gone but his breath had seemed to leave as well. A black vignette appeared in his vision, the sound of his feet hitting the ground, the sound of yelling in the street, and the sound of George’s yelling in particular washing over Clay overwhelming his senses.</span></p><p> <span>With little warning, George took a sharp right turn, running halfway down a shallow alley. In one swift movement, George stripped Clay of his jacket, using it to block out most of their faces by wrapping it around the pair, and put his head on Clay’s forehead, resting his other hand on his hip.</span></p><p> <span>“Don’t say anything,” George said hushed.</span></p><p> <span>“What even happened?” Clay immediately shot back.</span></p><p> <span>“I’ll explain once it’s over, just shut up,” George said, peering over their makeshift barrier.</span></p><p> <span>“No, I need an answer now” Dream said slightly louder than before, glaring at the man he had just met.</span></p><p> <span>“No, you need to shut your damn mouth” George shot back, peering over their barrier once again, but this time quickly shooting his head down.</span></p><p> <span>“No, I need-” before Clay was able to finish his statement, George suddenly leaned in and pressed his lips on Clays, pulling him in tightly to prevent him from writhing and throwing away his on-the-fly cover.</span></p><p> <span>Upon his release, Clay pushed George back, backing away from the man. “Who do you think you are” Clay said, anger in his eyes and voice, his heart pounding from adrenaline, and his hands shaking from anger.</span></p><p> <span>“Consider me your damn savior rich boy” George said, “That man wanted your head on a platter, my bad for trying to save you”</span></p><p> <span>Clay didn’t know how to respond, but for the first time noticed how heavy the boy in front of him was breathing. He was quite a bit smaller than Clay, despite this he was also much more muscular. He was definitely not as well off as Clay, but he certainly had more of a brain. This George character was a lot more interesting than he had initially thought.</span></p><p> <span>“You have my thanks then, now if you’ll excuse me” Clay announced, turning and heading back towards the street.</span></p><p> <span>“If you go that way you’ll die” George stated.</span></p><p> <span>“And how do you know that”</span></p><p> <span>“Trust me, the last thing those people would do is allow you to somehow outsmart them” George stated, slipping his gun back into his pants. “You really pissed em off”</span></p><p> <span>“So, what am I supposed to do” Clay asked, his feelings going from anger to a reluctant trust.</span></p><p> <span>“You’ll have to listen to the homo” George said, walking down the alley confidently, Clay following him closely behind.</span></p><p> <span>If it was under any other circumstance, Clay would refuse. Not only was he a street rat but he had just infected him with his filth. This situation, however, had not let his ideals have a moment to impact his decisions. It was almost as if the first moment he was unable to deliberate and think about what was going on, he was also unable to hold to his ideals. It was as if the moment his thin wall of status was torn down, he was standing on nothing but the dirt he had loathed.</span></p><p> <span>“It was Dream, right?” George asked as they walked through the maze of back alleys.</span></p><p> <span>“Yes.” Clay responded.</span></p><p> <span>“I’ll take you as far as the office, from there I’ll trail you. Once we get to your homestead, take me inside and I’ll alert whomever is there of the attack. Got it?”</span></p><p> <span>“How can I trust you”</span></p><p> <span>“I have had every opportunity to watch your prude ass die and let you live.”</span></p><p> <span>“Fair enough I suppose”</span></p><p> <span>They walked in utter silence, their footsteps echoing loudly. The sounds of traffic and people in the distance were also present. It was almost unbearable when they weren’t speaking. The symphony of the city, the filth of the ground. The dirt on his brow, the street rat in front of him. All of it was unbearable. </span></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Lets go motivation time! Thank you so much for taking time to read this far! I appreciate hearing from you guys a lot, and i'm glad my niche little DNF fanfic is getting any sort of attention :D As always feel free to critique me in the comments or just let me know what you think!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>          Clay’s eyes were glued to the ground as he walked, he had initially tried to keep track of the many turns they made so he would be able to backpedal if he had to, but he eventually had lost track. It was ironic in his eyes. He had never trusted someone who so obviously belonged to a different world then him.</span>
</p><p> <span>George, if that was even his name to begin with, had a rugged appeal, the gun attached to his hip making the otherwise plain boy one hundred times more intimidating. Nothing about him was particularly pleasing other then perhaps his deep brown eyes, which within themselves held a certain form of intimidation anyway, but something about the immense mystery surrounding this man so willing to save someone he hardly knew was captivating.</span></p><p> <span>That was the second reason Clay was unable to sympathize with George. Clay had been born into business; he was practically made to protect himself. If he could save someone’s life at even the slightest risk for himself, he would never even let the thought escape his mind. This George character, despite having only known Clay for a mere matter of minutes (and spending half of them insulting him), was willing to risk his life for his. It didn’t make sense one bit in Clay’s head, but he had so much owed to this man already that at this point that if George had intended to kill him, he had missed one to many opportunities.</span></p><p> <span>“This looks to be the office, if I’m not mistaken” George said, spinning on his heels to face Clay.</span></p><p> <span>“You’re not” Clay replied.</span></p><p> <span>“I know” George quipped back. “From here on out walk on this side of the road and I’ll tail from the alley, if you think your in danger call out somehow”</span></p><p> <span>Clay couldn’t find the words to respond, so instead elected to just nod his head, awkwardly moving past George back to the street. It was mildly concerning that George so confidently knew where the office was, however Clay was able to set it aside. Once by himself, he was suddenly hyper aware of the people around him. He had yet to set eyes on the people who apparently desperately wanted him gone, and they could have been anyone walking around him. It was enough of a thrill to get his adrenaline pumping, but also created enough fear to make his heart pump as if it was ready to rip a hole in his chest.</span></p><p> <span>He was usually able to walk with enough confidence to kill a man, but his head was locked on the ground, counting the weeds as he passed them. He feared that if he looked up, he may look the devil in his eyes. So instead of risking his life, he counted his own steps, he counted the weeds, and counted the cracks in the sidewalk, only looking up to look behind him or to take note of what street he was on. It was a strange feeling. He had never wanted so desperately to not be alone.</span></p><p> <span>Clay had traversed these streets a hundred times, and yet they had never felt quite as unfamiliar as they did in that moment. He had hardly even taken notice of how quickly he was walking until he came to the street he lived on and had suddenly become aware of the aches in his feet and the shallow breaths he had been taking. George emerged from his hiding spot, reconnecting with Clay.</span></p><p> <span>“Alright Dream, let go tell pops how you have a bounty on your head” George snickered.</span></p><p> <span>“Do you really have to call me that”</span></p><p> <span>“It’s your company not mine”</span></p><p> <span>Clay and George walked side by side as they approached his home, large ornate fences lining the yards of the many homes they passed. Clay was finally in a spot he knew better then George. He had grown up here, he knew each home like the back of his hand, and had equally been aware of who lived in each. From older couples sitting on large stacks of cash, or established business men choosing to live a life of utmost luxury, it was practically the American dream presented on one street of homes.</span></p><p> <span>It was at this moment, however, Clay had for the first time felt as if he didn’t fully belong here. He knew these homes, he had grown up watching the houses populate the street, and he had his connections with everyone here. It was a life in the lap of luxury, giving him the ability to keep his clean image. Men with clean shaven faces married to wives who serve their husbands as best they could would stroll the street with their heads held up high, carrying one another as if they were each other’s most sacred possession. They didn’t have to fear a bullet in the back of their skull if they held their head too high.</span></p><p> <span>No, it wasn’t that they didn’t have to fear it, but rather they would never get to fear it. They would not get to experience the rush of adrenaline that came with it, or get to feel the feeling of your empty lungs sucking in the much-needed air into them after running so hard you match the tempo of your heart. They lived blissfully unaware of the excitement of hiding away from danger.</span></p><p> <span>With this simple line of reasoning, Clay came to be aware that for the first time in his life, he was yearning for another life. One that was not only unclean, undefined, and uncharted, but was almost the complete opposite of what he had lived for so long. For once, he was the maiden in the tower.</span></p><p> <span>As he walked, deep in thought, he came to be aware of a large red truck speedily flying down the street, followed by another. He laughed a bit, it was probably nothing more than a cat in a particularly high tree, but it wasn’t that long before he noticed a familiar sent in his nose. The scent of burning wood. He yet again didn’t have time to register what George was saying, and instead sprinted to the familiar gate of his home, seeing many people who he had grown next to leaving their home to gander at the spectacle across the street.</span></p><p> <span>When he tried to stop running, he fell to his knees, ripping two small holes in his pant and scratching the whole of his hands. Without a moment to reflect on this, however, he stood up as quickly as possible and looked at his home. It was exactly as he had expected, and yet had chosen to deny. Orange flames licked at the walls, his sister and mother were already out of the home with an arm full of possessions they could grab before leaving the home. Firemen stood at the side of the road, unraveling large amounts of hose as the flames ate the shelter that Clay had claimed for so long. George jogged up next to his side, resting a hand on his shoulder.</span></p><p> <span>“I don’t think they liked that you lived” George said sympathetically.</span></p><p> <span>Clay once again found himself unable to speak. Instead, a tear rolled down his face, he wasn’t given a choice whether or not he could return home. He had his life given to him at birth and stripped away by the burning flames he’d attempted to allude.</span></p><p> <span>“Where am I supposed to go” he whimpered.</span></p><p> <span>“Well, you’ve got money in your pocket, don’t you? Why not buy yourself a new home pal” George suggested, patting Clay on the back.</span></p><p> <span>“Just to watch it burn?”</span></p><p> <span>“Perhaps”</span></p><p> <span>“And then just spend more money? And keep watching a house burn over and over until they give up or have me buried 6 feet under”</span></p><p> <span>“If it's any consolation I think the death of your father would also work”</span></p><p> <span>“Thanks”</span></p><p> <span>There was silence for a moment, nothing but the sound of flames being slowly extinguished, and the sight of a once proud home charred and on its last leg.</span></p><p> <span>“You could always help us,” George stated. Taking his hand off Clay’s back and running it through his own hair. “It’d be hard work but as long as you’re willing to do it, I can guarantee your family's protection.”</span></p><p> <span>“Why would you do this for me, I don’t understand. You don’t even know me” Clay spoke softly, his words less strained than before as he attempted to recollect himself.</span></p><p> <span>“Because I know your type don’t write who gives you your money”</span></p><p> <span>With that statement alone Clay was unable to hold back any longer. He turned to the man, nodded his head, and put it on his shoulder, tears staining George’s white shirt. Clay’s mother had called out to him by this point, but Clay simply couldn’t hear her.</span></p><p> <span>“That’s that then” George said, pulling the crying rich kid in closer to him. “It’s your time to shine.”</span></p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>